


An Unquiet Grave

by Butterbeerandbutterknives



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Metaphors, Vomiting, possible blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterbeerandbutterknives/pseuds/Butterbeerandbutterknives
Summary: with·erverb1.(of a plant) become dry and shriveled.2.cease to flourish; fall into decay or decline.Or, a look at Crowley's less than stellar eating habits throughout the millennia.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	An Unquiet Grave

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This work is centered around the theme of an eating disorder.  
> Also, a quick word on pronoun usage: when Crowley is in a female body, I use she/her. Later, when in male form, he/him pronouns are used.

**And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life (Genesis 3:14)**

She was a metaphor maker, above all. 

Sure, Crowley was technically a serpent, but he felt much more at home in a human body. The whole belly crawling thing just wasn’t his style. There was no pizzazz, no way to dutifully swagger when he was in snake form.  
The eating nothing but dust bit… that was something Crowley could manage.  
Demons don’t require food in the same way a human might. That being said, they also don’t _not_ require food, like an angel.  
He’d tried dirt once, whilst slithering through Eden shortly after he fell. It was utterly revolting, but he kept eating. He ate and ate, and then transformed himself into a human figure before eating some more, not stopping until his stomach was so full and upset that he threw it all up. The pile of mud-filled bile he’d created was so utterly disgusting that after his stomach was empty, he drank from the river and threw that up, too. And despite that he had followed Her instructions, no matter that he humbled himself below her feet to the point of seemingly no return, She didn’t arrive to unmake him Crawly and make him Raphael again. She didn’t arrive to make him whole again.  
And then there was Aziraphale.  
The angel looked at him like he was other, yes, but he didn’t view him as less. In fact, Aziraphale even used terms like we and us when talking about the pair, a thing that never happened in hell. Amongst demons, it was always our kind. An acknowledgment that they shared a species, but a sure indicator that they were only fraternizing because of direct orders.  
It was 3784 B.C when Crowley had her first lunch with Aziraphale.  
  
Restaurants weren’t quite a thing yet, but bread was, as was mead. And beer, in other parts, but the two sat on a hilltop is Mesopotamia, where Aziraphale laid a blanket out, and where beer had yet to be discovered.  
  
Aziraphale knew the woman walking up the hill was Crowley, not just by his aura, but by the cunning smile and careful strut she possessed.  
  
“You simply must try this delightful new food.” Aziraphale gushed in lieu of a greeting. “The locals are calling it cheese.”  
  
Crowley snorted. “I never will understand your excitement over this whole… eating thing.” The word tasted like a curse in her mouth, or, more correctly, it tasted like a prayer.  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale mused. “I know we don’t need to eat, but it’s just so lovely. It’s an indulgence of the purest kind, really.”  
  
“I’ll stick with the booze, thanks.” Crowley swallowed. We don’t need to eat hung in the air like a mantra. Technically, that was somewhat true. She didn’t need regular meals- one every few weeks would maintain his weight, one every few years would keep him alive, but she was, at the core, a serpent, not a celestial projection like Aziraphale. Some of those serpentine traits clung to him even in her human form- her eyes, cold blood, and the hunger was one.  
She’d had a handful of wheat, stolen from the farm of a rich villager, about a year and a half ago. Some water, here and there to keep the throat in good condition, but she was sat, with a glass of sickly-sweet honey wine in her hand, seriously debating if she even deserved to consume that.  
  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale broke the demon from his internal monologue.  
  
“Sorry, what were you saying?” she replied, brushing a hair that had fallen from her plait back behind her shoulder.  
  
“You’re sure you don’t want this other loaf of bread then?” Aziraphale asked. “Your corporation is beginning to gaunt, slightly.”  
  
“Nah.” She reassured, and, deciding the soothing of her nerves took precedence over any sort of divine guilt she felt, took a swing of her mead. She could always miracle it out later. “Feel free to have it.”  
  
Aziraphale grinned and with a snap of his fingers, the loaves were cut and topped with goat’s cheese. “So,” He asked, refilling both their goblets. “How are things on your side?”  
  
And with that, Crowley smiled. 

* * *

  
Crowley’s guilt about eating followed him around with minimal consequences for quite some time. Every few years, she’d have dinner, then his stomach would cramp, and she’d vomit into the early hours of dawn, without ever having to miracle it out or even push his fingers down her throat. That eased the guilt he felt about betraying Her. After all, it wasn’t eating if he never fully digested it, right?  
  
Embarrassingly, however, after the fall of Rome, she didn’t eat for six years. One night, when she was sallow, with bony knees and pointed ribs that jutted out, she fell asleep and discorporated.  
  
Beelzebub was furious, and the paperwork was a nightmare, so Crowley vowed to himself in 584 A.D, when he rose to the earth once more, that he wouldn’t let it get that bad again. And for a while, that was true. He was thin, but he ate as many as four times in a year. Once in 904 A.D, he even kept a few meals down. He was less cold, had more energy, and overall, just got into more debauchery. It was wonderful.  
  
The downward saunter, Crowley would later realize, really stared in the 12th century. He and Aziraphale fought, Crowley left angry, and found himself taking it out on his worst enemy- himself.  
  
For a couple of centuries, Crowley didn’t care what She thought. He ate multiple times in a week sometimes, but the pit of food in his stomach felt too similar to the pit of guilt he felt so oft that he always ended up shoving his fingers down his throat. He could’ve miracled it out of himself, of course, but something about throwing up was so… undemonic. It made him feel, well, not human, and certainly not angelic, but it made the desire to literally steal candy from a baby soften for a bit. It grounded him.  
  
Then, the black death came.  
  
October 18th, 1347 was when the first mass burial pit was dug in Madrid, and the last time Crowley ate that century.  
  
In 1350, he and Aziraphale met in Crowley’s dingy one-room shack in Milan. The corpses lined the street. There was no time for even mass burials now. Crowley was still pleasantly shaped, a smattering of fat over his bones that laid softly atop his hipbones and filled in the valleys betwixt his ribs.  
  
Aziraphale knocked, and when, as usual, the demon didn’t invite him in, he entered the wooden house softly. “Hi.” He said simply. There wasn’t much else to say. There were no comments about the weather or the people that could lighten the mood.  
  
“It’s not pestilence.” Crowley hummed from his bed.  
  
“I know.” Aziraphale reassured, walking over to the bed, which was the sole piece of furniture other than the fireplace. He sat on the straw sack, noting that the bedframe with ropes beneath it seemed to improve the comfort.  
  
“It’s not my lot.” Crowley murmured.  
  
“Not mine, either.” Aziraphale susurrated, taking off his leather turn-shoes to place his feet upon the bed. “It’s just…”  
  
“If you say ineffable.” Crowley growled. “I WILL conjure up hellfire.”  
  
“I was going to say grim.” Aziraphale replied. He hadn’t really but lying seemed a peccadillo compared to the possibility of upsetting his companion of five thousand years. “Besides.” He continued, deciding to lie back further against the mattress. “I figured your lot would be throwing a celebration over all this death.”  
  
Crowley rolled over. “This isn’t evil, angel.” He sighed. “It’s not malice or destruction or even anger-inducing. It’s extermination.”  
  
“My dear.” Aziraphale breathed. “It’s horrible, you’re right. I know it’s overwhelming right now, but you need to hold onto faith.”  
  
Crowley laughed a low, hollow sound. “I’m beyond faith. I am dirt beneath the bootheel of faith. She cast me out for asking questions, I doubt she plans on answering any of them.”  
  
“Then hold onto me.”  
  
It wasn’t the first time they had sex- not by a longshot. They were sort of a rubber band, going through fazes of stifling closeness followed by decades, or even centuries apart. It was only half due to the fear of getting caught- the other was the fear of admitting they were doing anything more than just blowing off steam. They’d been afar from one another for so long that this perigee seemed almost overdue. After, Crowley slipped into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke a few hours later, the fire had burned to embers and the angel was nowhere to be seen.  
  
He wouldn’t see him again until 1404.  


* * *

  
In the next few centuries, Crowley had bigger things to focus on than eating. The art was slowly getting better, the music less boring now that polyphony was no longer viewed as too extravagant, and there were plenty of witch trials to attend. So, he set a schedule for himself: every year, on all hallows eve, at precisely 10 pm, he was to eat a meal.  
In the autumn 1609, Crowley sat on a rooftop in Gothenburg with a newly invented telescope, admiring the stars. “I did a bloody good job on the big dipper.” He chortled to himself. “How no one has figured out its just portrait of a cryptorchid is beyond me.” He stayed there until the sun rose on Sankta Lucia Day, and when the candlelit figures came through the city Crowley realized he’d missed his dinner date with himself. Shrugging, he waved off the offers of lussekatter. Maybe next year I’ll eat. He mused.  


* * *

  
He kept this up until the year 1798. Aziraphale and himself were once again at the peak of their bell curve, impossibly close for the past few weeks, simply gallivanting around the British countryside. They were on the Persian carpet of the main room in the manor, discussing Aziraphale’s interest in opening a bookshop in nearby London. As he stroked his lover’s back, the vertebrae jutting like ships against the horizon, Aziraphale found himself unable to bite back the question that’d been on his tongue the past few decades. “My dear.” He spoke softly. “Are you alright? Your corporation has gotten quite… skeletal.”  
  
Immediately, the demon’s body stiffened. “I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He snarled; voice detached.  
  
“Dearest.” Aziraphale reassured. “I’m not saying I don’t like how you look, it’s just, well… perhaps you should see to attending dinner?”  
  
Crowley stood, ignoring the way his head swam with hunger and pure, unadulterated panic. Snapping his fingers, he was instantly dressed in his regency clothing. “I need some air.” He said crossly. And with that, he mounted his horse, not stopping until he reached London.  
  
Crowley slept most of the 19th century. He got up once, in 1834, to piss, but the gnawing in his stomach was so powerful he decided the best course of action was merely to go back to bed.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t bring up Crowley’s eating habits (or lack thereof) for the entirety of the 20th century. The idea of the demon shutting him out- shutting everybody out- for another hundred year’s sleep was enough to keep his mouth shut.  
  
That was, until the cottage incident.  
  
It was normal, after the almost apocalypse. They shared a small cottage in south downs, the current closeness having no indication of wearing off. They went to a local pond at sunrise to watch the ducks, and Crowley had yet to mention the fact that there just conveniently and not at all miraculously a bench for him to sit on whenever his knees started to buckle. Aziraphale kept his mouth shut for months, simply living, and breathing in the demon, working on the garden together, sleeping together, and well, _sleeping together_ , the angel thought with a blush. He saw how Crowley’s corporation thinned, and, equally as horrifying on one occasion, how emaciated his serpent form was.  
  
Aziraphale tried, of course. The angel cooked, attempted to feed him mouthfuls of croissants, and even tried to get him hooked on fancy, sugary concoctions from the local coffeehouse. The crux of his frustrations came when, one day while they were in the living room, Crowley got up to get water after pausing his episode of Golden Girls. He stood, grasping the couch arm when the dizziness became overwhelming, and promptly fell into darkness.  
  
“Oh, thank heavens.” Aziraphale sighed when Crowley opened his eyes.  
  
Crowley frowned, taking in his surroundings. This wasn’t hell, and it wasn’t even the living room. Brushing the silk betwixt his fingers, he croaked, “What am I doing in bed?”  
  
“You fainted, dear.” Aziraphale murmured. “I wasn’t going to leave you on the floor.”  
  
Crowley looked at his hands with interest. They were the same, bony, masculine hands he’d had for centuries. “I didn’t discorporate.” He whispered. He wasn’t dumb, he knew what he was doing- the stress of Tadfield had made his weakened heart worse, and there’d already been a few times he’d had to miracle the cardiac muscles into working properly.  
  
Aziraphale paused. “You can discorporate from starvation?” He asked worriedly. He’d never thought of such a thing, but it made sense- all the precursors to death by famine were there. The pallor, the leg weakness, the way Crowley seemed always to be inching closer to either Aziraphale or the fireplace.  
  
“I don’t know.” Crowley mumbled. He felt weak. The idea of getting up and trying to eat something felt impossible. All that standing, then the vomiting and guilt and repentance afterward- the mere idea made him sink deeper into the mattress.  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I know you’re lying.”  
  
“Don’t.” Crowley warned. Wetting his lips with his forked tongue, he suddenly wished he’d managed that glass of water. They were trying to miracle less, keep their profile low. An abundance of both demon and angel magic in one place was a recipe for disaster. “Angel- can you do me a favour?”  
  
Aziraphale smiled softly. “Of course, my dearest.” He wondered what food Crowley was going to ask for. Some caprese salad? Maybe some fish, pickled herring perhaps. He knew the demon enjoyed his time in Tromsø.  
  
“Can you fetch me a glass of water?” Crowley quired.  
  
Aziraphale exhaled, weighing his options. “No.” He settled on.  
  
Crowley blinked languidly. This was not the response he expected. Usually, his companion loved to mother hen incessantly. This was the first time he’d asked something of him since the holy water. “Angel,” He spoke, trying to keep his tone as far from begging as he could manage. “Please, I- “the rest lodged in his throat, but what he meant was _I don’t think I can get it myself._  
  
“You can have cocoa or a builder’s tea.” Aziraphale stated. “I’ll even make you a smoothie if you like. But you are going to have something with calories.”  
  
Crowley couldn’t stop his hiss. “I will not.” He stated. “I will have water or nothing at all.”  
  
Aziraphale huffed, feeling anger begin to swirl in his chest. “I will not sit around and watch you destroy your corporal flesh. I will be in the living room. When you decide you want to eat, let me know. Until then, I will not be available.” Turning, he exited the bedroom and shut the door with a slam before the tears started to fall.  


  


It felt odd, to have an apogee of emotion without the physical distance, Crowley mused. The angel was only on the other side of a wall, but he might as well have been on Neptune. Deciding it was to be a battle of waiting, Crowley let his eyes close. He was, after all, exhausted.  
  
Crowley made it two weeks before he caved. For a creature who had lived over 6,000 years, this was a relatively short time, but patience is a virtue.  
  
Crowley took a steadying breath. There was no way around it- he recognized this feeling. It was the same feeling he’d had in late November of 450 A.D, just a few days before he discorporated. “Aziraphale?” He croaked, voice hoarse from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Angel?”  
  
Aziraphale stood hastily, running to the door as soon as he heard Crowley speak. Trying to make himself appear uninterested, he paused to straighten his bowtie before entering. “Yes, my dearest?” He replied as he opened the door. He’d been forcing himself to stay away, trying to replace Crowley with as many books as he could get his hands on, so he felt a lump in his throat form when he saw how truly awful his beloved looked. His body was as emaciated as always, but any hint of colour was gone from his lips- and worse, his aura had faded to a mere whisper. He was going to discorporate. Soon.  
  
“I-” Crowley stammered. “Food. I need food.”  
  
Aziraphale might have smiled if Crowley didn’t look so much like a corpse. “Of course.” He reassured, “I’ll be right back.” Going to the kitchen, he made what he could quickly, without miracleing any ingredients. Hot chocolate, and a manchego panini with honey aioli. When it was ready, he bustled back into the bedroom. Hands full, he pushed the door open with his foot. “Knock knock!” he chirped with a false lightness in his tone.  
  
As Aziraphale put down the food, Crowley swallowed a mouthful of salvia. He was so, so hungry, and yet the scent of the food was making him nauseous. “Thank you.” He murmured. There was a blackness around the corner of his vision, but he thought he saw Aziraphale relax a bit. Crowley pushed himself onto his elbows, shutting his eyes as the dizziness increased tenfold.  
  
Notice his pause, Aziraphale sat down next to his love. “Allow me to help.”  
  
“Just this once.” Crowley grumbled. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to sit up without essentially being propped up like a ragdoll.  
  
Aziraphale helped the demon sit up, and carefully positioned himself so that Crowley’s back was against his front. Grabbing the hot chocolate, he held it in front of Crowley, expecting him to take the handle. “It’s alright, my love.” He soothed, pressing a kiss to the back of his head.  
  
Crowley reached a trembling hand up, but the effort was draining him. He considered miracling it, but that would most likely tire him to the point of slumber. And Crowley had an uneasy feeling if he fell asleep right now that he was unlikely to wake up still on this earth. He dropped his hand down, sagging further against Aziraphale. Without the exchange of any words, the angel knew what Crowley was asking. He raised the mug up to the demon’s lips, humming a melody he’d heard near the Nile in 600 B.C.  
  
“Thank you, Angel.” Crowley susurrated. “It’sssss lovely.”  
  
“Have a bit of the sandwich.” Aziraphale insisted. “Perhaps if you get your strength up, we can sit outside in the garden for a bit.”  
  
Crowley smiled a bit. An angel using bribery, who would have thought? The smile vanished, however, when he smelt the panini draw closer. He needed to eat, though, if he wanted to be able to stay with Aziraphale. Discorperation meant seeing banished to hell, which meant death, or at least extensive torture. He obediently took a bite, chewed it for entirely too long, and tentatively swallowed. Aziraphale wasn’t satisfied though, his body tense with worry against Crowley’s back. So, he took a second bite, then a third, until nearly half the sandwich was gone and Aziraphale had relaxed somewhat. “No more, angel.” He protested. The cheese and bread clung to the bottom of his stomach, weighing him down.  
  
“All right.” Aziraphale relented. “Would you like that glass of water now, my dear?” After a nod, the angel got up, resting Crowley against the padded headboard. It was black, but with the softness and curving arch to it, Aziraphale knew he had to compromise somewhere. That was the whole decorating scheme of the cottage, really. Crepuscular with an ambrosial leniency. As he filled a plastic cup with bats on it, he heard a voice.  
  
“Angel?” Crowley called tentatively, swallowing bile. “Could you bring the bin?”  
  
Frowning, Aziraphale grabbed the empty bin from under the sink. Perhaps Crowley has noticed a hidden piece of rubbish somewhere in the room? Bringing the glass with him, He set both objects down within reach of Crowley. He looked a bit better now, but his colour was still… off. It was a chalky grey before, but now he looked a touch green.   
  
“Uhg.” He muttered. “Good thing I chewed that so well, huh Angel?”  
  
Aziraphale miricled the mess away, not wanting to risk further upset to Crowley’s stomach. “My dear.” He consoled. “I think we both know this is not merely a recent event. What did you do last time it got this bad?”  
  
“Discorperate.”  
  
Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to rid his mind of the images he had of Crowley, back in hell, dead on the torture rack. “Well.” He replied, voice tight. “Let’s not have that happen again, shall we?”  
  
“I’m not making myself sick.” Crowley stammered defensively, “It’s just, when it’s been a while, my stomach just tends to… forget, I supposed.”  
  
Aziraphale knelt on a single knee and stroked Crowley’s hair softly. “Let me do some quick research.” He suggested. “Perhaps there is something that would be easier on your digestive tract.  
  
Crowley hummed an affirmative, and sunk back down into the pillows, hoping for a dreamless sleep.  
It wasn’t.  
  
Crowley awoke to the sound of screaming. Shooting upright, dizziness pressed him back against the mattress while he realized the scream was his own. Gasping for breath, he felt his heart splutter. He heard someone call his name, Aziraphale most likely, but it sounded like he was underwater. Clutching a hand to his chest, he focused his magic inwards, pushing the aorta back into place. When the pain receded, he collapsed into the duvet, boneless with lassitude.   


* * *

  
When he awoke again, there was a wafting smell of cinnamon in the air, and the sweet scent of Aziraphale next to him. Crowley purred in contentment, pressing himself against the angel’s thigh for warmth.  
  
“Good, you’re awake.” Aziraphale tittered. “I’ve done some research. I believe you have something called refeeding syndrome. All we must do is start you off slow, with soft foods with lots of vitamins. I made some applesauce, it’s in the slow cooker.”  
  
“How long was I out?” Crowley asked, running a hand across the khaki slacks his angel was wearing.  
  
“That depends on what you last remember.” Aziraphale told.  
  
“I remember the uh-“ Crowley paused, not wanting to admit his issue had led to a heart attack. “The nightmare.” He settled on.  
  
“You mean your cardiac arrest.”  
  
Crowley sighed. “Can we not do this now?”  
  
“I’m not-” Aziraphale paused. “I’m not trying to start anything, Crowley. I just don’t see the point of you holding onto a shield of illusion, anymore.” He put down the book he had been reading, volume II of _The Biology of Human Starvation_. As hard as it was not to intervene during the Minnesota Starvation Experiment, he was now endlessly grateful for the scientific advances it had made. “I’ll go get you a bowl of applesauce. I even added fresh-ground cardamom.”  
  
“I’m not hungry.” Crowley protested.  
  
Aziraphale frowned. “That cannot be true. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”  
  
Crowley glanced at the clock. “About thirteen hours.” Sure, he might have thrown it up, but doctors said you still retained half the calories when that happened.  
  
Aziraphale scowled. “Other than that.”  
  
“I don’t know.” Crowley retorted. After receiving a glare, he continued. “I don’t actually know. I had champagne at the Ritz with you and some whiskey a few days before that, but I don’t know the last time I had solid food.” He admitted. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stir a memory. “2017, probably?”  
  
“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale stammered. “That was years ago.”  
  
“I’m aware of how the passage of time works, thank you.”  
  
Aziraphale laughed, happy Crowley was at least feeling well enough to be snarky. Somehow, the laughter morphed into tears, and then into sobs. Aziraphale let himself burrow his face against the demon’s shoulder. How was it that they could save the world, yet he was unable to save Crowley from himself?  
  
After twenty minutes, the tears stopped, and Aziraphale composed himself. “Will you eat something light?” he asked. “Just something to put the colour back on your face.”  
  
Crowley sighed. “I’m not hungry, angel. Maybe in another month or so.”  
  
“Crowley.” Aziraphale murmured. “I understand this has been a struggle of yours for millennia.” He reached out to grab Crowley’s hand in comfort. “But we have just won a war that was planned before our creations. You can win this battle, too. If you cannot eat for yourself, I understand. But know that you are no longer eating only for yourself; you are eating for me too.” The angel squeezed the demon’s hand. “If you discorparate, chances are I will remain on earth without you for an eternity. Please, don’t do that to me.”  
  
Crowley swallowed. “Okay.” He pulled himself into a sitting position. “Let’s give it another go.”  
  
The applesauce was velvety as it went down Crowley’s sore throat. There was a mug of darjeeling with two sugars next to him, and when he’d eaten a few spoonsful of the fruit he set down the bowl next to it. “You want the tea now?” Aziraphale asked.  
  
Crowley sat a bit straighter, testing out his somewhat refreshed body. “Let’s go sit by the fireplace.” He suggested. “Maybe put on an episode of Golden Girls?”  
  
Aziraphale smiled, relived Crowley seemed a bit less faint. He stood up, watching Crowley pivot himself semi-upright. “After you, my Dear.”  
  
The subtext was clear to the demon. _Walk ahead of me so I can make sure you don’t fall._  
  
Meandering to the living room, Crowley collapse onto the couch, boneless. He clasped the mug, desperate for its meager warmth to seep into the depths of his icy fingers. Aziraphale, seeing Crowley’s desire for warmth, draped an afghan carefully onto the demon’s lap. “Thank you.” Crowley murmured. When the angel walked to the fireplace, Crowley felt his carefully crafted exterior begin to crumble. He had everything he could want- freedom from hell, a somewhat quiet life, and Aziraphale by his side twenty-four-seven- so what the fuck was he doing? Why could the guilt not leave him alone? If repentance hadn’t worked for the past six millennia, why now? He opened his mouth to tell Aziraphale to leave, to go to Poland or Chile or anywhere but here, anywhere but where Crowley was falling apart. He could feel the explosion building, and he knew he was about to destroy everything around him. The last time Crowley felt like this, the City-State he’d been staying at sunk into the ocean in one day, all while the citizens of Atlantis carried on as normal.  
  
What happened was not a natural disaster. What happened was far worse, however. Crowley found himself bursting into tears.  


* * *

  
They sat, immobile on the couch for nigh on a week. Crowley had long since stopped crying, his blackened tears staining the tartan cushions beyond repair. Aziraphale was there, the whole time, holding Crowley when the demon was awake, and trying to sneak in knitting when he thought his companion was asleep.  
  
On the seventh day, Crowley finally asked what had been on his mind the entire time. “What on earth are you making?”  
  
Aziraphale blushed. “I thought you hadn’t noticed. I know knitting was your crowd’s doing but…”  
  
Crowley snorted. “I may have exaggerated a bit. Though I did come up with the myth that if your knitting is perfect your soul would get trapped in it.” He paused. “Oh, and I think I accidentally invented crocheting while drunk in Toulouse.”  
  
Aziraphale cocked his head. It was reassuring that at least some of his pastimes were not demonically influenced. “I’m making a scarf.” He replied. “Are you familiar with Tvåändsstickning?”  
  
“Gesundheit.” Crowley drawled sarcastically. It burned far less than saying bless you.  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips as he gave him The Look™, but largely ignored the sass as he continued in his best storyteller voice. “Tvåändsstickning loosely translates as knitting from two ends. When you alternate between the two yarns every stitch, you get a fabric so densely knitted it almost looks woven. It’s warm, water-resistant, and the edges curl less.”  
  
“So, by using the two ends together, they become stronger than either on their own?” Crowley mused.  
  
“You’re not using them both in the same stitch together, though.” Aziraphale murmured. “They work in tandem, supporting each other, but they have autonomy.”  
  
“I like the sound of that.” Crowley replied.  
  
“My dear,” Aziraphale spoke, setting his scarf down once he’d finished the row. “You know I’m not just talking about the knitting, don’t you?”  
  
“No, really?” Crowley fake gasped.  
  
The angel chuckled softly. “What I’m trying to say is I’m not going to force you to recover.” He explained. “That I _can’t_ force you to recover. I may occasionally have to force-feed you to stave off discorperation, but I’m not expecting you to sit down and have a roast with me every Sunday.” He stroked Crowley’s hair gently. “But when- or if, you chose to challenge this beast, you will not have to do it alone. I cannot understand what you’re going through, but I can ensure you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m done leaving you, done with this on-again, off-again romance. I’m here for good now, Crowley.”  
  
The demon smiled and grasped his long-forgotten tea. “To the next six thousand years.”  
  
The angel grabbed his room temperature cocoa. “To the next six thousand years.” He echoed. “In sickness and in health.”  
  
Crowley smiled. He knew Aziraphale was well aware of the weight those words carried. “Here’s to the beginning of the rest of our lives.”  
  
Aziraphale cocked a smile. “I like the sound of that.”  
  
And on a branch just outside the window, a bluebird began to sing.  


**Author's Note:**

> This was my first foray into the Good Omens universe! As you probably noticed, there is quite the hodgepodge of book and TV canon, I blended the two to serve the story best. I'm going to give similar notes as I did at the end of another ED themed fic I did not too long ago, the main one being that I am well aware love is not a panacea for anorexia/ mental illness in general. Secondly, while this is based on personal experience, I have never had an eating disorder, so I sincerely apologize for any inaccuracies. I have, however, struggled with disordered eating resulting from OCD, so parts of this are based on real events. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed :) -Skye.


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